Thing Bailiwick

by Fawn Bonning

  She pushed against his shoulders, then harder until he reluctantly pulled away, his eyes blazing, his breathing labored.

  “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I just…I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “You can, Melanie,” he whispered huskily. Running a finger tenderly down her cheek, he leaned in again.

  “No,” she said, pressing firmly against his shoulders. “I mean it. I can’t do this.”

  He lie heavily on top of her. Too heavy, as if the weight of the world. And he was looking at her oddly, an expression she couldn’t read.

  “Please try to understand,” he breathed in a peculiar whisper, one that sounded close to pleading. “We have but one night in a lifetime.”

  Leaning close, he closed his eyes as in inhaled deeply. “I smell your innocence,” he whispered on the exhale. “And your fear. I know this will be difficult to understand, but I’m giving you a precious gift tonight. A son. He will be like no other. There will be pain as you have never known, but you’re strong, Melanie. You can survive this. It will all be worth it in the end.”

  That’s when she first saw it. A glimpse of something not right…a subtle shifting of facial features.

  The hair at the back of her neck prickled, working its way up to her scalp until it was crawling painfully. Her heart was pounding, the pulse seeming to vibrate her very eardrums.

  The shadows were playing tricks on her eyes. That’s all it was. Of course, that’s all it was.

  Outside, she could hear the wind howling eerily.

  “My answer is no,” she stated with as much conviction as she could muster. “I mean it, you son of a bitch! Get off of me right now or I start screaming.”

  He exhaled a sad sigh as he brushed a wisp of hair from her eyes. “My brave, raven-haired Melanie,” he whispered, running the back of his hand tenderly down her cheek. “I’m afraid you can’t do that. If you wake your friends, he’ll rip out their throats. I won’t be able to stop him.”

  It was as if the howling wind had made its way into the room, sending a chill coursing through her. The molten mess had resumed its rigid form, save the lines were no longer smooth and straight. They were rough and jagged.

  He dropped his eyes to her lips, then followed them with a fingertip, tracing slowly round and around. “Sweet, shy Melanie,” he intoned, and she heard it…something wrong with his voice…a warped rumbling deep in his throat. “He’s coming. I can’t stop him. And neither can you, do you understand me? Don’t…try…to stop him.”

  She couldn’t find her voice. The body on top of hers was a ten ton boulder that had her lungs compressed. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She was capable only of staring up into green eyes that were shimmering too brightly in the darkness.

  Something was wrong…terribly, terribly wrong.

  He leaned in, though it was not his lips that touched her own, but a lapping tongue.

  Air filled her lungs in a rush, and as the frantic scream formed in her throat, he dropped his mouth to her ear. “Don’t make him kill them,” he warned, the voice an eerie gravelly growl. “Don’t make him.”

  Shivers made a mad dash down her spine, and she bit her lip to thwart the scream, whimpering instead as he lapped her ear, then her cheek, working down to her neck, then her shoulder where he nipped her.

  The pain instigated a struggle till he was forced to restrain her, pinning her wrists at her ears with a frustrated growl.

  He was panting oddly as he perched upon his forearms, his hands like iron cuffs around her wrists. His face was different. His hairline had crept down further on his forehead, nearly joining his brows which had thickened. And his nose was larger…his lips thinner and wider, and curved up strangely at the corners.

  “Oh, God,” she whimpered. “Please, please.”

  His eyes fell to the gold crucifix that was resting in the soft dip of her neck. Releasing her wrists, he lifted the cross between finger and thumb, rubbing it softly. “Yes. Pull strength from your faith,” he uttered in a raspy rumble. “You’re going to need it. I’m sorry, Melanie. I don’t want to hurt you. But when he takes over, I have no control. Hold very still…and be very quiet. Please.”

  “Who?” she squeaked out. “Who takes over?”

  “Bodark,” he grunted in a voice horribly guttural, his lips peeling back over teeth oddly pointed.

  Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she threw both hands over her mouth as the sobs began to sound, trying desperately to smother them. It was a dream. An awful nightmare. When she opened her eyes, it would all be gone. Just a horrible, horrible dream.

  “Yes,” he rasped. “Keep them closed. Keep them closed, sweet Melanie.”

  And with that, he grasped the shirt at her throat, popping the buttons from neck to navel and sending them clattering to the floor.

  She squeezed her eyes tighter as he hooked a finger into the side of her underwear, forcing it down.

  Why? What had she done so wrong? She’d always been a decent person, kind, considerate…pure of heart…of body. She went to confession once a month, sometimes twice.

  Her shudders became convulsions when his tongue lapped at her nipple. And then she fell oddly still, her breath catching as his weight shifted downward, his tongue trailing along her belly to her navel.

  As he descended further still, something snapped within her. It was an involuntary reflex which popped her eyes wide and sent her to flailing and kicking, landing one foot squarely in his face.

  He let out a strange yelp, and was immediately on top of her, his mouth once again at her ear. “Don’t make him angry!” he growled. “He’ll kill you, Melanie! He’ll rip your throat out!”

  A horrific snapping of bones sounded and he threw his head back with a howl, his already distorted face contorting in a pained grimace. At the angle, she could see his chin was jutting oddly, nearly as far as his elongated nose, the two seeming to meld into one.

  He let out a whine as his shoulder—now matted in dark black hair—snapped forward, dislocating from its joint with a repulsive pop. The other followed suit.

  A high keening was issuing from her throat as she squeezed her eyes closed and struggled not to vomit up a combination of chicken noodle soup, Ring-a-Dings and corned beef hash.

  As he pushed her thighs wide, positioning himself between, she fought to keep the scream inside, clamping her mouth tight…but it traveled to her brain, rattling it till her eyes flew open.

  Her scream immediately found a voice.

  She was screaming and she couldn’t stop. He dealt with it abruptly, clamping a hairy hand over her mouth. His other, he dropped over her eyes.

  “Keep them closed,” he grated in a voice that was but a mere garbled growl. “Think of him. Your son,” he rasped…and then shifted high, forcing his way inside of her.

  ~~~~

  In their room, Debra and Cathy giggled behind their hands.

  “Oh, my God,” Cathy whispered. “I knew it! I knew she liked him. Jeez, Louise, listen to that!”

  “Sure sounds like he knows what the hell he’s doing,” Debra said with more than a hint of jealousy in her voice.

  “Come on, Deb. Be happy for her.”

  “I am, I am. Happy and envious.”

  Cat giggled. “Yeah, me too. He really is gorgeous. Some people have all the luck.”

  Deb let out a sigh. “And all because of this freak storm.”

  “I know,” Cat laughed. “Go figure. How long do you think it’s gonna last, anyway? They’re not gonna be able to find this place to dig us out if this keeps up. And now no electricity. Thank god we have a fireplace.”

  “Yeah, and a bottle of rum.”

  “Hellz yeah!” Cat cheered.

  “He didn’t drink any of his, did you notice.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “Nope. Not one drop. Christ, what the hell’s going on in there?” Debra moaned. Rolling to her stomach, she pulled her pillow over her head, holding it snugly in place. But even this couldn’t mute the
sounds of the vigorous activity from across the hall.

  She smiled.

  Cat was right. Some people had all the damn luck.

  ~~~~

  His breaths were quick sharp pants, these barely discernable over the loud protestations of bed springs that were very tightly wound. His brutal thrusts had sent the bed shimmying the two feet to the wall where it was thumping a stringent rhythm, had been thumping for what seemed an endless eternity.

  Her insides had been ravaged to the point of numbness, and her smothered screams had tapered to muted moans drifting through his fingers. He’d removed the hand from her eyes. It was no longer needed. She hadn’t the strength to open them, even if she wished. Consciousness was tenuous as strange images drifted through her mind, bits and pieces of her life like mini movie clips.

  She was two and her dog Spinner was chasing her through the house nipping at her heels while she giggled merrily….

  Then she was six—or maybe seven—and she had dressed up in her mother’s clothes. She was wearing high-heels and a full face of garishly-applied makeup, and she was clopping down the sidewalk feeling very proud of her new, more mature look…

  She was eleven and she was at the funeral parlor. It was the first funeral she had ever attended and she couldn’t take her eyes off the lifeless body of her grandmother lying prone, hands neatly folded, cheeks neatly rouged, entombed for eternity in a silk-lined box.

  She was nine and…

  She was slipping into darkness. She welcomed it—sweet, merciful oblivion—until he snarled her name, reviving her instantly.

  She was nine and riding in the back of their green station wagon. It was a real clunker. There wasn’t a seat in it that didn’t have rips with foam pushing its way through. She was looking out the window at a man who was walking along the sidewalk holding hands with a girl about her age. Their clasped hands were swinging sweetly and the sight filled her with emptiness. A void so wide and deep…

  Blackness was creeping upon her yet again, but before it could claim her, he pulled out abruptly, the unexpected move pulling out a tortured cry. Flinging her to her belly, he yanked her to her knees.

  Fumbling for the pillow, she clutched it to her face, burying the scream forced out by his violent reentry.

  With fingers digging into her hips, he held her in place as the springs resumed a rigorous rhythm and the headboard a persistent pounding.

  She was thirteen and Timmy Schulman, the boy from two houses down, was trying to kiss her. She pushed him away and told him to take a hike with what she hoped was a proper look of shocked indignation.

  She was twenty and Shaun O’Neil, her good friend of three years, was helping her study for an important chemistry exam. Suddenly, he leaned over and kissed her, and she pushed him away and told him that it might be best if he leave.

  ~~~~

  “Jeez, Louise, I can’t stand this,” Cathy groaned. Sitting up in bed, she brushed a mass of blonde curls from her eyes. “I’m gonna go peek.”

  “Cat, don’t you dare!” Debra hissed.

  “Listen to that! Sounds like they’re gonna put the bed through the damn wall! What the hell are they doing in there, having a gymnastics meet?”

  “Shhh. They’re gonna hear you.”

  “Are you kidding?” Cat laughed, and she and Debra broke into hysterics, not worried in the least that they might hear.

  ~~~~

  He was grunting.

  She was three, and…

  He was grunting and snarling.

  she was sitting on her father’s lap, and…

  Nails were digging into her hips.

  cartoons were playing, and…

  A globule of slobber plopped on her back.

  she was crying, because…

  She was screaming into the pillow.

  she didn’t like him touching her there, and

  Screaming!

  she was whining, and…“Nyaah, what’s up, doc?”

  His thrusts were peaking.

  he was shushing her, because…“You wascally wabbit.”

  Screaming!

  Mommy might hear, but…

  He was howling!

  she couldn’t stop because…“I taught I taw a puddy tat.”

  She was screaming.

  she didn’t like Daddy touching her, and…

  Howling!

  she didn’t like watching cartoons with him, because…

  She was choking… gagging…

  he was a bad man…“I did! I did tee a puddy tat!”

  He was howling! Howling! He was—

  a bad man…

  Howling!

  “Th-th-th-that’s all folks.”

  ~~~~

  Debra snapped awake. “What! Wh—”

  She put a hand to her forehead, rubbing at the ache. “Cat, did you hear that?” she mumbled past a dry throat. “Was that howling?”

  Cat didn’t reply. She was too busy sawing logs. She was liquored up and out like a light.

  Groaning, Deb turned to the clock. “Oh, my god. Three thirty?”

  She rubbed at her face, trying to bring herself back to life, trying to figure out what the hell she’d been dreaming about and wondering how the hell the gymnastics meet could still be going on across the hall.

  But it seemed it was finally over.

  She could hear him moving around. She heard water running in the bathroom, heard him clear his throat. And then floorboards were popping and springs were creaking as he took his place back on the couch.

  She briefly entertained the notion of going out there and doing a little competing of her own. If he was up to it, so to speak. She was, after all, the more experienced competitor, not to mention extremely flexible. But she quickly dismissed the idea. Her head was hurting and her thoughts were jumbled and he hadn’t even shown the slightest interest in her. Besides, even soused, she wasn’t so crude as to sleep with the same man who had just deflowered her best friend so competently.

  “Way to go, Mel,” she whispered. “Bout damn time. Now, Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream.”

  Smiling a devilish grin, she rolled to her side and, after listening to Cathy’s light snoring for a few minutes, drifted off to dreamland.

  ~~~~

  The storm had run its course.

  The day had dawned quiet.

  Where she lie in bed, Melanie listened to Deb and Cat giggling flirtatiously with the monster in the next room. Every once in a while she would hear him chuckle, the sound smooth and buttery, and she would cringe and shudder and wipe away the silent tears.

  There came a rap on the door, and she quickly snatched the comforter to her chin to hide the blood-soaked sheets.

  Debra poked her head in, beaming ear to ear. “Come on out, Mel. Breakfast is ready. Thank god for gas stoves, right? Michael found some potatoes under the sink and he fried them up with butter and onions. He’s got a regular gourmet meal going. He is just too cute, Mel, really,” she whispered. “Come on, up and at ‘em,” she said, striding across the room to the window.

  “Debra,” Melanie croaked hoarsely, “I don’t feel—”

  “Look at this,” Debra said, pulling open the curtains.

  Groaning, Melanie quickly shielded her eyes.

  “Well, okay, so the sun isn’t shining yet, but the storm is over and… Oh, my God, Mel, you look like hell!”

  “I don’t feel good.”

  “God, you are really pale. Do you have a fever?” she asked, heading toward her, a concerned look shadowing her face.

  “No, Deb,” she croaked, attempting to moisten her lips with a tongue that was equally as dry. “Just…leave me alone,” she said, pushing Deb’s hand from her forehead. She was terrified. And not only for herself.

  Debra stood peering down at her. “Christ, you have circles under your eyes big as Texas and New Mexico put together,” she said, one hand fluttering to her throat. “He was too rough on you.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, sorry…we kind of…w
ell, you weren’t exactly being quiet in here. We couldn’t help but hear.”

  “Debra, please…close the curtains and go away,” she muttered weakly.

  “Fine, fine, okay,” she said, shuffling to the window to draw the curtains back together. “I’ll check back in a little later, okay? You just…catch up on some sleep,” she said as she backed out the door, shutting it quietly.

  Pulling the comforter back down, Melanie stared numbly at her bulging belly. She whimpered at the movement beneath her skin, her stomach undulating like an ocean’s surface as something writhed inside of her. She bit her lower lip, fighting back a scream and digging her nails into the bedding as a strong wave of pain enveloped her.

  “She coming out?” Cathy asked as she carried plates of fried potatoes and onions to the table.

  “No, she doesn’t feel well.” Debra retrieved her cup of coffee and seated herself. “She doesn’t look good at all,” she said, eyeing Michael where he stood at the sink washing out the fry pan. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Mr. Wilkens?”

  “Me,” he asked innocently, his back still turned.

  “Yes, you. If you must know, we heard everything last night. I mean, it was kind of hard not to. I think the Ringling Brothers could have put on a show in there and made less noise, so you can just drop the innocent act.”

  “Deb,” Cathy grumbled, nudging her under the table.

  “No, I want to know why she looks like she’s been through World War Four.”

  Keeping his back to them, he turned off the faucet and leaned heavily on the counter, bowing his head.

  “You know, you could’ve been a little easier on her. It was her fir—”

  “I asked her,” he blurted.